The Weavers of Magic
by AbyssinianSerengeti
Summary: "What about Nikita?" "Who's Nikita?" A fall during a performance with the magical La Mariposa Weavers leaves Michael fighting for life. When he awakes, he finds that Division has simply been the creation of a comatose mind. AU


**The Weavers of Magic**

Part I - The World of Golden Oranges

**_Silk_**

Michael ran. One two, one two, one two. Steps muffled against the leaf-strewn forest floor. A forest that offered no cover. It's trees too sparse and with trunks too thin to shelter him. One two, one two, one two. A snap of a twig here and there as his weight descended upon it. The muscles at his arms and shoulders aching to keep the weapon at ready. One two, one two, one two.

"_Michael?"_ a breathless voice came to him. Fingers automatically twitched to his face, as if feeling the earpiece was equal to knowing she was alive. _"Michael...just listen, I don't have much time. They've got me. But I've seen the canister, it's in the second room on the west wing – no! No words, now. Second room, the code is PA-12-TUS-35-72. Have you got that? Get away as fast as you can and come back another – – _Get your hands off me. I said _get. Your hands. Off. Me._"

One two, one two, one two. Michael turned back. Sprinted back. _No...not Nikita..._One two, one two, one two.

"_Who are you working for? _No one._ Who knows you're here? _No one. _Are you armed? _No. _Eliminate her."_

Michael registered a scream. He fell forward, gun slipping from his grip. Distantly, he registered that the scream must have been his own. It would have drawn attention from the house. Surely there'd be men coming out to deal with him. One two, one two, one two. Ah, he thought, there they are. Let there footsteps come. What point would there be if she was gone? None. He could still hear her steely voice – "no one." She hadn't given him away. She'd wanted him to be free. One two, one two, one two. But how could he be, if free meant trapped inside his own head forever. Forever blaming himself for leaving her there. Forever knowing that it was his fault that she had...had...

One two, one two, one two.

One two, one two, one two.

They must be close now. Yes...he sighed. Something cold pressed against his head. Pull the trigger, dammit. Pull it! _Pull it!_

One two, one two, one two.

One two, one two, one two.

One two, one two, one two.

Beep beeep, beep beeep, beep beeep.

Beep beeep, beep beeep, beep beeep.

Something cold...a hand. A cool, soft hand against his head. Light. A smiling face. _This must be heaven_.

"How are you feeling, Michael?" a soothing voice, close yet far.

_Where am I?_

"You had a very bad fall. We've been waiting for you to wake up – no, there's no need to talk. Just squeeze my hand if you understand. Good. Now keep taking slow, deep breaths and I'll go fetch the Doctor. Would you like me to call in your wife? I think she'd very much like to say hello."

_My wife? Nikita? But...it couldn't be..._

The woman in white retreated from my line of sight and I found myself staring at some incandescent light bulbs. My throat was in neglect and I found it difficult to remember how to form simple words. There were odd strings and pieces of tape stuck to the back of my hands, the inside of my elbows and all around my face. This was what being a lab rat felt like – strangely claustrophobic despite knowing that the room was large and the ceiling high.

_No, this can't be heaven._

Presently, the sound of feet padded into the room.

Onetwo onetwo, onetwo onetwo, onetwo onetwo. The beeping monitor went into overdrive. My wife...my what? Could it be? Could it be _her?_ Could it –

"Careful there tiger, don't want to send you back to the darklands."

No it could not. For one second, I was sure there was complete silence. No way could my feeble heart have continued running as I stared at my wife. My actual wife. The wife I was sure had been exploded into a trillion tiny charred pieces. Elizabeth.

There she was, grinning at me, her light auburn hair pulled back in a plait. Certain my eyes were bulging, I took in features I'd thought I'd never see again. Guiltily realising there were so many things about her I'd forgotten. The sound of her voice, the way she licked her lips when she was nervous. The shape of her hands that were now cupped around one of mine. I'd forgotten she'd never had her ears pierced, or just how small and thin she was. Then I started to notice other signs. Hollows in her cheeks, dark rings around her eyes, a greasy consistency to her scalp, the nails that had been bitten raw and the all round greyish tinge that enveloped her figure in a smog of surrealism.

There were so many things to ask. So many things to say. Why aren't you dead? Where am I? What's going on? Haley? Oh God, Haley. And Nikita. What did Elizabeth know about Nikita? Where was she? Was she okay? Was _she_ alive?

"Hush," she patted his hands, "Let's wait until Dr S looks you over before we say or do anything."

I stopped my stammering. I bit down the flow of questions and took more of her in. She seemed distracted, absentmindedly stroking my fingers, looking around as if waiting for something to jump out. She was anxious, uncomfortable for sure, not at all like how I remembered my young wife. Then I noticed her clothing. They were ill-fitting, dropping off her shoulders to hang forlornly towards the ground. The baggy t-shirt looked like it was a gift from a charity store, like she couldn't have afforded anything classier. Yet its colours were vivid – not at all like something tossed aside in a church collection. He looked closer. At first glance, it seemed as if an artist had dumped a palette of colours and swirled them around in water until every tone mixed with every other, in a kaleidoscope of patterns. Lime greens melted into purples that oozed with passion, a dazzling yellow became a muddy brown that suddenly glowed orange. Electric blues contrasted with dark plums, cherry reds. Emeralds and forests and beige creams cascaded down her shoulders. White strips separated baby pinks and metallic silver from mints, violets and cerulean. A flash of gold led to a sprinkle of apricot, a tangerine twirl became burnt sienna.

"Michael," a man, also in white, returned with the soft-smiled nurse. "How do you feel? My name is Dr Sonar and I've been monitoring your progress for the last 27 days."

I nod. This is as much as I can manage. The nurse presses a button that moves my bed into an upright position. My head reels as the equilibrium of my horizontal world shifts. My breathing is already heavy and I struggle to figure out how many weeks 27 days is.

"So Michael, what is the last thing you remember."

Where to start. The mission. Nikita. The canister. Nikita. The forest. Nikita. The scream. Nikita. One two, one two, one two. Percy. Black boxes. Amanda. Alex. Owen. Birkhoff. Ryan. Sean. Senator Madeleine. Guardians. Where to start.

"Division."

The good Doctor makes a note on his clipboard before looking up, "That's good. You're speaking. Now, could you explain what division you mean? Something at work perhaps?"

I look at Elizabeth. She's staring intently back at me, a small furrow in the middle of her forehead. The grip on my hand tightens. I attempt a reassuring squeeze back. Of course, how stupid for me to mention Division. How dangerous.

"Yes...at work..." I hear myself lie. The nurse looks unconvinced but the Doctor simply makes another note. The questioning continues. I barely notice the answers I give. The Doctor continues to ask and write, ask and write. His calmness starts to irritate me. I fidget. The nurse fetches cold towels, water, continues to soothe. Every time I speak, I look back to Elizabeth. She just stares at me. I can see her lips getting parched. There's something devastating about her. Something I can't put my finger on.

"Elizabeth?" I croak after the questioners have moved away. She lifts her head and nods. "What's going on?"

"We have to leave. We have to start moving," she says urgently, "Or else we'll never find them again."

The urgency pierces me, though I have no idea why. "Find who?"

Her faces falls, "I knew it. You weren't lying to the white suits were you? You _actually _don't remember."

"Remember?"

"Us."

"What? No...I mean, yes. I do remember you."

"No," she sighs, "Not about me. All of us. Don't you remember us?"

"Us?"

"Los tejedores de la magia," she whispers.

A desperate struggle commences. The name strikes a bell. Instinctively, I look to her oversized shirt. From what had been colour, now I see shape. Not just any shape, but pictures, images of spectacular detail. It starts with a swan. Her head is straight and long, as if stretched up towards the sky, as if to welcome the new day. Her wings open up behind her, a curve of her breast and a flick of her tail create an 'L'. Then there is woman dressed like a fantastical beast, a reptilian creature that curls itself into a ball of ebony and burgundy scales. The contortionist's body creates an 'a'. A little below the L-shaped swan is a phoenix, it's arms outstretched, it's tail flaring – at the peak of brilliance before the transformation into a small ball of ash. Beside that is the swollen and garishly wide smile of a clown. Then a trapeze artist flying through the air, her head facing the ground, her body arched backwards in mid-spin. And so on, the pictures revealed themselves. A mischievous smile adorns the face of an elven archer, a dragon entwines itself around the bars of a ruby cage, a man with a zebra-striped face swallows a glinting sword.

And all around the pictures, fly creatures of exquisite detail. Their painted wings almost jumping from the roughly hewn cloth.

"You're beginning to realise..."

I pull my eyes from her shirt to her face. "La Mariposa. The Butterfly."

Breathlessly, Elizabeth leans forward, _"Do you remember us?"_

"No..."

She slumps, "Not anyone? Not Percy or Amanda – "

I freeze, "What did you say?"

"Percy...Amanda?"

"I know them. At least I think...I think I know them. Percy, Amanda, you, Birkhoff, Nikita, everyone."

"Nikita?"

I nod, equally breathless. I'm not quite so insane as I'd thought. They exist. They all _exist!_

"Who's Nikita?"

The monitor goes silent again. When it comes back, I hear that the beat is irregular. One two two, one two two, one one two, one one two. I feel the pressure increase on my hand.

"You...don't know Nikita?"

She shakes her head.

"Nikita's not part of...of...La Mariposa?"

Elizabeth glances around. Of course the room is empty, why shouldn't it be? She gives me a look, that verges very close to pity. "Michael...darling, I don't think she's one of us. In fact...I don't she –"

"She does. She is."

"Were you...attached to her, in your dream?"

"My dream?"

"You must know by now. You've been dreaming. You mentioned a Division, you said you fell down in a forest. You lived in New York. Michael, in real life, you work for the Mariposa, you fell doing one of Urs' routines. You live in a caravan."

"I live in caravan?"

Elizabeth smiles slowly, "In _our_ caravan. With your daughter. Do you...do you remember your daughter?"

I noticed the tears that have glossed over her eyes, "Yes," I murmur, "Haley."

My wife bows her head into her arms, resting against my bed. I think I hear her mutter, "Thank God. Oh thank God. He remembers her. He remembers her."

I allow her a moment, but my mind, now eagerly pushing aside the fog at the edges of my memory, needs its questions answered.

"Where is Haley?"

"At home."

"You mean, the caravan?"

"No...no...they've left us behind. That's why we've got to get on the road, as soon as you're strong enough. We've got to find them."

"Why wouldn't we be able to find them?"

Elizabeth gives me a strange look. "It's strange. You not knowing, it's...strange." I return her comment with a glare of mild impatience. She goes on, unheeding, "You don't know any of what's happened. You're right at the beginning. You'll have to learn it all again. It's going to take time, Michael. I'm sorry, but, it's going to take a lot longer than I thought."

I stare at her. None of what she says makes any sense.

"Michael, I have to ask," she stares at her hands, wrapped around mine. Slowly, she removes them. The air feels bitterly cold. I don't understand. "Do you love me? What I mean is, do you remember how you used to love me?"

I cannot answer her.

She nods. "I understand, tiger. But...who is Nikita?"

Again, I cannot answer.

Again, she nods. "She's the one you love now."

There's a silence that fills the space and makes it impossible for me to breathe, or take my eyes off her. Unable to imagine the pain I've caused her, I attempt to take her hand. She moves away. I swallow heavily. But I notice that she's neither teary nor angry. That is one thing I do remember about Elizabeth. She was always a trooper. She never complained, was never the sobbing kind. She was a US marine's wife. His constant companion. His only friend. His rock.

"I'm sorry."

"We need to find her."

"I'm sorry?"

Elizabeth looked up, determined, "We need to find her."

"But she doesn't...you said that..."

"Who is Birkhoff?"

"A computer genius."

She stood up and started pacing around the room, "Well, he's our head technician. He consolidates all the lights, SFX's, mic's, ropes, ladders, rising and lowering platforms. He makes the show tick."

I drop into deep thought, but before I can muse on the parallels any longer, Elizabeth asks, "Who is Percy?"

"The old head of Division. You?"

"The mastermind behind La Mariposa."

"Amanda's the new head. She's out of control."

"Well, Amanda is the artistic director. She's in charge of all the sets, props, costumes."

I raised an eyebrow, "That was my Amanda's job before Percy...well, before Nikita and I took his black box."

Elizabeth wheeled around. "His what?"

"His black box. It was a set of hardrives with all of Divisions secrets on them, secrets that would destroy the world."

"Those must be the Chinese boxes," she muttered.

"_Chinese_ boxes?"

"Mariposa is in possession of a set of Chinese boxes. Each box fits into each other, like Russian babushka dolls. And each is painted with a special design, that carries a special meaning. We use them to...travel. Though no one knows how. Only Percy, and his engineer. It gives us our magic."

By now, I can barely keep track of her words. Travel? Percy and an engineer? Magic? "Magic?"

"Magic."

"Magic?"

Elizabeth is staring at me again. "Oh Michael, don't tell me you can't remember that part as well?"

With a wry smile, Elizabeth steps into the middle of the room, the area with the most unobstructed space. One second she is standing with feet solidly on the ground, the next she's spinning in the air. Her body rolls out of his spherical position and she hangs, face to the ceiling, limbs spread in a ballerina-like pose, as if some invisible partner had lifted her up. There she posed, for a handful of seconds before dropping gracefully to the floor, cat-like.

I can barely register a thing.

"I have anti-gravi power. Given to me by the Chinese box. We all have some skill. That's what makes Mariposa so special – that's why everyone flocks to watch us wherever we go."

Fearfully, I ask what the box had given me.

She comes and sits at the foot of the bed, stroking the material of the sheets, "You? Well tiger, you could fly."

"Could?"

Elizabeth stays silent. "What about Owen?"

It takes a while for me to realise she's back to comparing my realities, "Owen was an ex-guardian. He used to protect a box but Nikita managed to turn him against Percy. He'd take drugs to be stronger and faster than the rest of us."

"Ah...well, he's our Strongman. People love watching him pull trucks with his teeth and bend pieces of steel. On Saturdays, he's our Fire eater."

"What about...Ryan Fletcher?"

"Ryan? I guess you could call him our office liaison. He sells tickets, advertises, handles legal suits."

"Right. He was a CIA analyst to me. Another one Nikita managed to turn."

As soon as I say the words, I can hear my own sadness reverberating from them. A tiny pained expression flits across Elizabeth's expression but it's gone the moment I notice.

"You see, don't you? Everyone in your world exists in this one. Nikita has to exist."

"But...how can I think up of someone who I hadn't met before?"

My wife stared up at the ceiling, "Maybe...because you were meant to meet. You just couldn't while I was around. You haven't mentioned what I was, in the world of Division."

I freeze again, willing her to take those words back. "You were...you were my wife. Just like you are now."

"And?" she waited for more, knowing, as a women always seemed to, that there was more.

"And," I faltered. How could I tell her? "And I loved you very much."

"Loved?"

"You died," I muttered, "In a car bomb. Years before I met Nikita. And...and so did Hayley."

"I see."

I stared at my lap. If there was an award for worst husband in the world, I'd have won.

"You should get some sleep," she said, pressing the button that lowered my bed. She stepped forward and pressed her lips to my forehead, not sadly but with a simplicity to hurt. There was still something missing from the Elizabeth I remembered. Something that made her seem like a lost like girl. It had been there from the moment he'd seen her and now, with Nikita hanging between them, it seemed to have intensified.

"Wait, Elizabeth," I said as one last question popped out, "What was I? What am I?"

As a genuine, happy expression donned her face, I glimpsed a reflection of a woman I once knew. She closed her eyes, as if recalling some lost memory and savouring in its long forgotten taste. For a minute, the air seemed to shimmer, and I could swear the letters on her shirt shone with an otherworldly glow.

"You were an aerial silk artist," she smiled, "And when you made magic, the whole world held its breath. We called you the fallen angel. Heaven spoke through you, when you flew – you could touch the sky."

* * *

><p><strong>A fall during an aerial silk act leaves Michael fighting for life and when he awakes, he finds that Division has simply been the creation of a comatose mind.<strong> **Left behind by the magi****cal La Mariposa, with only Elizabeth's ****shirt as a guide****, they must find los tejedores de la magia - the weavers of magic - or perish without the pulsing strength of the curious Chinese Boxes**. **As Michael struggles to relearn all that he's forgotten, including how to love his wife, dreams of the old world come at night bringing with them images of Nikita - whoever she may be.**

_Hello my lovelies, so this was a plot bunny that's been hopping around for awhile. I really don't know if I have the...er...discipline to continue_. _And yes, the transition from 3rd person to 1st person was intentional :)_


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